


sgàil

by mibasiamille



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 1948, Canon Divergence, F/M, au - claire finds jamie earlier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:00:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mibasiamille/pseuds/mibasiamille
Summary: sgàil (scottish gaelic): shadow, ghost, phantomAfter the birth of her daughter, Claire makes a startling discovery about Jamie's fate post-Culloden.





	sgàil

**April 1944**

**France**

 

For the first time in a long time, Claire Randall felt at peace. With the brief rushes of wind tickling the bottoms of the tent and the delicate calling of birds outside the canvas walls, she could close her eyes and be anywhere-- _ everywhere _ but France. With it’s fog-filled skies and distant shrieks of air raid sirens filling up the tranquility of night, France had proved itself to be a country entirely at war-- _ as if  _ that  _ was a surprise _ , she thought wryly. But from time to time, she found herself gazing past the medical tents, through the tanks and trucks to the mountainside, where she clung to anything that had yet to be destroyed by the afflictions of man. 

 

And that’s why she took solace in these early hours of the morning, just before dawn, when the sun was steadily rising over the horizon. As it did so--the sky taking on a gradient similar to the skin of a peach, she sat in bed with her medical books and the radio playing softly in the background. This is the time she had purely to herself. She wouldn’t think of her patients: the new ones she would face, the men that were still in need of her healing touch. Ones already so far gone, she’d lost the memory of their faces. Nor did she think of home, wherever  _ that _ was--

 

Her train of thought suddenly halted.  _ Frank _ .

 

She didn’t think about him, either. 

 

Shaking the morose thoughts from her mind, she instead returned to her studies. The book laid open on her lap, separated by a barrier of rough woolen blankets. The temperature had dropped significantly overnight, and although she never liked to sleep with more than a thin sheet, she found the cheaply-made fabric soothing to an extent. 

 

She pulled it around her now, goosebumps forming on the small, exposed areas on her neck and arms. A soft brush of air hit her face, wafting the vibrant scents of mud and rain towards her and then, an all-too familiar sensation: a touch, right at the base of her skull, where her hairline ended. (Ringlets always seemed to fall out of her up-do’s in that particular spot; Frank used to call them her  _ curly-Q’s _ .) The phantom touch lingered for no more than a millisecond, if that, but she could still feel it long after it had passed. Closing the book, but dog-earing the page so she wouldn’t lose her place, she shifted into a more upright position before placing her hand in the same spot. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled, then exhaled with a sigh. 

 

_ What on  _ Earth  _ are you doing?,  _ she thought to herself.  _ You must be  _ mad _! _

 

She shook this thought off, however, and instead brought her hand back to her lap. Fiddling with her wedding ring, she thought of what this feeling might’ve been. Was it her mother, calling out to her long lost daughter, as she had thought a thousand times before? No, couldn't have been that; the touch was much too sensual to be maternal. Then, who? Definitely not Uncle Lamb, or her father, or even an ancestor long past. 

 

_ A guardian angel, then.  _

 

Her eyes widened slightly as she took this into consideration. Not much of a religious person, she had never truly thought much about afterlives and heavens and hells, but every so often she could feel it: the hovering of an invisible presence, touching her arm or back lightly with affection. She felt it most when she was ill, lying in bed or hurling into a metal bucket; the tenderness of one’s presence, the soft whispers of reassurance.  _ Everything will be fine.  _

 

As if she felt eyes on her now, her head whipped up just in time to see the swishing of plaid through the opening of the tent. She stood and ran after the figure, but to no avail. 

 

He had vanished. 


End file.
